Lay down with me
by bludahlia
Summary: One shot of Stiles and Lydia a few weeks after she gets out of Eichen. Rated M for language and some PG-13 sexual content.


It takes a moment to register where she is when Lydia wakes up. She's surprised that she was able to sleep so deeply. It makes more sense once she realizes where she is. Cotton sheets, blue gray walls, snugly encircled in a pair of protective arms, her back pressed into a warm, firm chest. She's with Stiles, where else would she be?

It's been nearly three weeks since she escaped, since she was rescued, from… _that place_. She hasn't spent a night alone since. He was on the couch at Deaton's. He was in the chair by her bed at the hospital. It took her a week to get him from the floor outside the door in the hallway, to the floor in the bedroom, to the space next to her under the covers. It's nice to see that chivalry isn't dead but it isn't exactly useful when nightmares result in screams that don't end until he comes to hold her every night. And even then he remains careful, polite, professional even. He is right there, but there is a space between them. She watches from a distance, just like she did before.

Her heart breaks (again) at the way he never understands how needed he is, when she knows that it's all he ever wanted.

But tonight, the routine is broken. She has woken before him, quietly, without urgency. He is asleep at his post, literally, and given into natural urges. He has pulled her body in closer, tighter, than he might have if he thought about it; if he were worried about boundaries and propriety. But she has caught him with his guard down. His face is nuzzled into the back of her neck, his left hand is hovering over, almost cupping, her breast, and something hard is crying out for her attention, pressing into her from behind. With anyone else she might be embarrassed, even annoyed, but with Stiles…she relishes in it. The sensations of being wrapped up in Stiles simultaneously thrill and soothe her. Stiles is safe and adventure and _home_ and chance all wrapped into one. She can't help herself. Lydia pushes her body back into his and is rewarded with a sleepy moan and tightened grip of his arms.

As usual, it takes a few seconds for Stiles to determine if he is awake or dreaming. However, instead of inducing panic, the process leaves him with a vague sense of assumed disappointment. After all, there is no way waking up with a handful of Lydia is not a dream, and he is not eager to let the experience fade away. He pulls her in tighter as if to demonstrate this point to himself. And that's when it hits him.

 _Fuck._

He's got five fingers gripping the dip in her waist and the other five have settled into a not-so-innocent hold on her chest. She's rigid in his arms and he knows she's awake. He can barely even think about the fact that his lower half is lined up perfectly with hers and the effect she has on him (had on him, will always have on him) is being made glaringly obvious. He's ruined it all, this little thing they had going. This arrangement that allowed him to do everything he possibly could to try to care for her, fix her, atone for his own sins. And she was letting him. His body has betrayed him, and her, outing him as a perv who can't seem to stop wanting her. He is mortified. He forces his limbs to loosen their grip and goes to roll away before either of them says anything. Maybe if they ignore it, they can at least pretend it never happened and exist amicably in uncomfortable avoidance. It's not as though that would be new.

Suddenly, his thoughts are halted. This doesn't happen to him often, and it is always jarring when it does. But his entire mind, body, and soul still when, as he is turning away from her, he feels the feather-light touch of tiny fingers wrap around his wrist. Lydia turns her body slightly towards his. Stiles sees her swallow, nervously, though seemingly not because of discomfort or fear. He gulps, almost audibly, in response. He is too resigned to hope, but feels a certain kind of anticipation rising in his chest anyway. Stiles musters all of his courage, and looks up to meet her eyes in the dark. Her gaze is blazingly determined, pleading, demanding, and something that looks an awful lot like adoring and it takes his breath away.

Lydia has concluded that the last 245 seconds or so have absolutely gotten away from her. She can't exactly say that she _wasn't_ up to no good when she decided to indulge herself in the physical manifestation of Stiles' attractions but she hadn't exactly thought through what waking him up could lead to. Lydia can do physical; she does it well and she has the reviews to prove it. She understands sensation and chemicals – action causes reaction. She can be a tad clinical, sure, but she's certainly had no complaints. But all of her knowledge and deductions go out the window the second she looks in Stiles's eyes. She sees guilt and shame and confusion but also a glimmer of hope and something akin to worship in his hazel gaze. Lydia Martin's genius mind is wiped blank as a result. It's all she can do to keep breathing until she is suddenly acutely aware that she is still holding his wrist and is responsible for the tension-filled stare off she and Stiles are currently participating in. Lydia still doesn't seem to be capable of rational thought, let alone the strategy and planning she would normally employ in such an encounter, (Although, who could even remember when she was that girl, having such encounters? It was so long ago. She doesn't count Parrish. They were both so drunk. She hardly even remembers it beyond a hazy, irrational desire for the involvement of more plaid…) so she lets instinct take over. Slowly, she feels herself pull Stiles' hand down under her t-shirt.

Stiles is delirious. There's no other explanation. He's ruled out dreaming, but he rationalizes that if he's feverish, he could be hallucinating what's happening. He also could have been drugged. His mind is exploding with thoughts. One of which is that he should probably be embarrassed that his hand on Lydia's bare abdomen is the most erotic and thrilling experience of his young life. He is not a pathetic virgin with an infatuation anymore. He has been with beautiful women. He knows the real Lydia now, flaws and all. (1. Does not fully appreciate Star Wars. 2. Stubborn as hell. 3. Tendency to throw herself into the face of danger without thinking it through. 4. Thinks through literally everything else and is right entirely too much of the time. And the list goes on) It doesn't matter. She is still his everything, his ultimate, perfect, dream girl. And even the suggestion that she could possibly want him maybe too much for Stiles to take. But he looks in her eyes and there is wanting and needing and he is in awe. Lydia hesitates, stopping their hands just short of her sternum, but doesn't let go.

For a moment they breathe, locking on to one another's gaze. Lydia drinks in his amazement and affection like a tonic that will give her courage and heal her. As Stiles peers into her emerald orbs, full of desire and the slightest hint of hidden scar tissue, it occurs to him that he hasn't even kissed her yet, not for real. Sure she stopped his panic attack and he desperately pressed his lips to hers to pull her back from catatonia at Deaton's, which worked, but he'd never kissed her the way he really wanted to.

(God, he wanted to so badly it literally hurt. He'd been walking around with a dull ache for so long sometimes he forgot about it. Briefly.)

He pulls back a little, not breaking eye contact, and wraps an arm around her lower back, shifting both of them up the bed slightly, and settles her on her back. For a second, he feels everyone one of her protruding ribs and hipbones, hallmarks of the stellar patient care offered at Eichen House. He glances down, away from her, to try to get a handle on the wave of rage, fear, and heartsickness that crests at the thought of how close he came to losing her.

When Stiles turns his gaze from her, Lydia knows why. Mr. Heart-On-His-Sleeve isn't exactly hard to read but she'll admit she takes a bizarre pride in knowing she does it best. She threads her fingers through his hair, grazing his scalp, hoping that his turmoil will be fleeting. A small part of her is still terrified, and she feels the bitter in the bitter sweetness of these moments (generally speaking, bittersweet is the best they can hope for anymore), but Lydia still feels enraptured in the spell that has taken over them and she isn't ready for it to end.

With a shaky breath, Stiles forces himself back into the moment, back to the here-and-now. Looking up, he focuses on Lydia and the jaw-dropping realization that she really truly wants him and is trusting him to protect her, care for her, maybe even love her.

Fucking hell, if that isn't all he has ever wanted to do?

With this thought in mind, he takes her image in one more time. He can see her eyes that she wants this, wants him. But mixed in with her desire he sees fatigue, pain (which may never go away. Those motherfuckers). She's staring up at him with bated breath. He makes his decision.

Stiles presses a kiss to her cheekbone, then moves down her jaw until, _finally_ , his lips are on her own. She is warm and accepting underneath him, and before long he's pushing his tongue past her lips with her encouragement. He moves down to her neck, placing hot, open mouthed kisses there while palming her breast. He pulls her whole body into his own as he goes to kiss her lips again, holding her tightly so she feels every part of him (and what she's doing to him) as she moans into his mouth. It takes everything he has to pull off, placing a lingering kiss to her forehead and settling her back into the pillows.

Lydia is a little disappointed as he gently places her down, but when she feels herself stifling a yawn she gets a niggling feeling that Stiles might have a reason for his decision. Her sweet, (sexy) caring, boy, always looking out for her when she never even asked. She looks up as she feels him brushing the hair off her face and she almost tears up at the way he is looking at her. Like she is Lydia-Fucking-Martin. It's been so long since she felt like the confident, strong, and powerful girl she once was. If she wasn't broken before (she was), Eichen House had certainly done the trick (they tried their best). But right now, with Stiles looking at her the way he is, she feels like she could be Lydia-Fucking-Martin again. And Lydia-Fucking-Martin likes to push the boundaries. So after another stifled yawn, with stiff movements she dismisses the concern on Stiles' face and tugs his shirt over his head, followed by her own. She kisses him one more time with a twinkle in her eye then turns onto her side and links her hand in his, pulling him behind her. Pressing her back into his chest once again she falls asleep knowing she is _home_.


End file.
